Tonight did not start very well. I missed my prearranged ticket meet thanks to taking a wrong turn and getting stuck in Christmas shopping traffic hell along the whole of Oxford Street. All apologies to Mr Knickers and thanks for holding onto them for me, I dropped the metaphorical ball. It was a costly mistake, the whole London driving debacle had cost 1 1/2 hours in total. After lining a tout's pockets (not by much I have to say ) we got in to the sound of Rubbish blasting out of the wonderfully inviting hall doors ahead. All was not lost.

I swear that with each gig I go to, my stamina for leaping around maniacally diminishes. But leap I did, along with a writhing throng of other sweaty middle aged men. And it wasn't even gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that...Anyway, a wonderful gig ensued. It was always going to be thus. Once the second encore began I had to tear myself away from the break I had no choice but to be taking. My knees hurt, as did my neck. I remember when being 30 Something was a lifetime away. We are all ageing. But as the first lines of Sheriff Fatman rang out across the Brixton academy I knew I did not really have a choice; I took the missus by the hand and headed back to do it again. One. Last. Time...Probably.